


M is for Mulberry

by Earth_Fire_Skye (orphan_account)



Series: Letters of the Rainbow [13]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Anything I missed, Birth, Breeding, Gimli's a matchmaker, Happy Ending, If it's not your cup of tea, Incest, M/M, Male Pregnancy, Parent/Child Incest, Please leave the pot for others, Thranduil's got it bad, a little bit, is there a ship name for Manwë/Marion/Melkor?, my muses are ganging up on me, naming of children, thrandolas - Freeform, whatever Elrond/Erestor is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 16:50:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6864607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Earth_Fire_Skye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When one wants something, one only has to reach out and grab it.</p>
<p>Or, Thranduil struggles with his feelings, Gimli's a matchmaker, Legolas wants to know what's going on, and everything turns out okay in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

* * *

 

            Nature is beautiful, full of life and energy and everything that he's ever wanted. His son is the same way. Light on his feet, gorgeous as he runs freely through the trees, so full of vibrant energy and... and Thranduil shouldn't want him. He shouldn't desire to have his son underneath him, belly swollen with cum and face flushed with pleasure, but he does. He wants to defile his son. To fill him with his seed and watch with lust and pride as his only child bears him another heir. There are many nights when Thranduil locks himself into his room with a powerful spell and spends a good chunk of the evening drunk and in a cold bath. If only to get his mind off of the images.

            But one thing still lingers, deep in the back of his mind as he watches his son play. _I want to breed him. I want him to grow fat with my child._

            It takes a lot of work to distract Thranduil, to keep him from pinning Legolas against the wall, tearing his clothes open, and fucking his ass until it's dripping with his seed. And there are times when he comes so close, just barely managing to stop himself from having his way with his son. Long are the nights when he strokes himself off, his imagination replacing his hand with his child's tight heat.

            When Thranduil learns that his only son has joined the Fellowship of the Ring, he's hit with a wave of relief and fear. Fear that his beautiful son won't come back, and relief that his son won't be around to tempt him. He still spends the first week sleeping in Legolas' room, breathing in his son's scent until it's no longer there. Then he retreats to his own room, nests in his blankets, and dreams even more of defiling his own flesh and blood.

             But then Legolas comes back with the redheaded Gimli at his side, and Thranduil _hates_ the Dwarf for being such close friends with his child. And no matter how many times he's assured that there's _nothing_ there, he still can't bring himself to be anything more than barely civil to the thing. It reaches the point where Legolas is yelling at him, calling him a rude bastard and so much more, and Thranduil wants nothing more than to pull his son over his knee and _spank_ him. He barely manages to stay his hand, instead choosing to growl, “Get out,” at his son and watch heartbroken as Legolas flees from the room with tears running down his face. When, and only when, his son is gone does he drop his head into his hands and sigh deeply. He's erect, ready to play, and definitely in need of a _very_ cold bath.

            Things get worse when Gimli corners him later that week and softly asks if he hates his own son. Thranduil stumbles, nearly tripping over his own feet, and his head whips around to stare at the dwarf. “Why would you ever think _that?_ ” he nearly shrieks, just barely managing to keep his voice low.

            The Dwarf eyes him carefully and sighs. “Legolas spent half an hour crying after you told him to get out. He thinks you don't love him anymore.”

            Thranduil sighs and does something he's never done before. He decides to tell the truth. “Look, Gimli was it? This does _not_ go any further than the two of us. I _love_ Legolas. He's my son and I always will, no matter what.”

            Gimli frowns. There's something about the way the Elvenking says the word 'love' that's bothering him. Then he remembers the looks Thranduil gives his son when he thinks no one else is looking, and the Dwarf staggers as realization dawns almost immediately. The Elvenking's in love with his son, and it's not platonic. “You're trying to protect him from yourself,” he breathes out and actually has to steady himself against the wall.

            Thranduil stares silently at him for a long time before sighing and looking away. “You Dwarves are far too smart for your own good,” he says before striding off down the hallway and vanishes around a corner. Gimli pushes off the wall and hurries to find Legolas. Promises or not, the Prince needs to know.

**oOo**

Legolas glances up the moment Gimli enters the room and the Dwarf winces at the sight of the Elf's tear stained cheeks. “Hey,” he says gruffly. “I cornered your father. He does love you. It's just....” He trails off and bites his lip, unsure as how to tell. How does one even begin to _explain_ this sort of situation?

            “He still loves me?” Legolas asks, voice slightly rougher from all of his crying, and it hitches awkwardly in the middle of the question.

            “More than that,” the Dwarf admits, and then steadies himself. “He's trying to protect you from himself.”

            “I don't understand,” the Elf mutters softly.

            Gimli tries again and fails just as badly. Eventually after a few more failures, he throws his hands up and after glancing at the closed door, blurts, “Look. He wants you. Your father loves you more than he should and he's trying to keep himself from fucking you senseless against the nearest wall.”

            Legolas' eyes widen and his mouth falls open but he doesn't try to deny it. “Are you sure?” he finally whispers softly.

            “Straight from him before he gracefully fled down a nearby hallway.” The Dwarf rolls his eyes. “It's your choice, blondie. You can either make it clear you're not interested, or you can go to your father and offer yourself up.”

            “Offer myself up,” he whispers again, a hand drifting down to brush hesitantly against his belly. Legolas knows full well what would happen if he did that. He'd fall heavy with his father's child.

            But…would it really be that bad?

            No. No, it wouldn't. Mind made up, Legolas gets to his feet and carefully opens his closet. There has to be _something_ in there he can use to seduce his father with.

**oOo**

            Thranduil wakes up the next morning, mind still foggy with sleep and warmer than usual. He glances down and then moves his gaze to the door before freezing and returning his eyes to his bed. Beside him is Legolas and his son is sleeping quietly, their bodies pressed close together. The Elvenking tugs at the blankets and pulls them out of the way, his mind frying a little at the sight of all that pale skin. Legolas is wearing no more than a small pair of lace panties and one of his own tunics. Thranduil is definitely larger, broader in the shoulders, and his tunic hangs on his smaller son.

            He wants to jump Legolas right then and there and fuck him hard enough to break the bed.

            The Elvenking barely manages to restrain himself, but his will is fraying quickly. Threads actually begin to fall apart when Legolas wakes and sits up to rub sleepily at his eyes, the neckline of the tunic falling over one shoulder. The hem of the damn thing is barely managing to cover his waist and he can still see bits of black lace. Thranduil wants to _rip_ them off. “Good morning, Ada,” Legolas says and slides into Thranduil's lap to press a small kiss against the ruler's forehead. He wiggles his hips and presses their noses together, just like he used to do when he had been younger.

            Later, Thranduil would wonder if the snapping sound of his will had been audible. But right then and there, all he cares about is getting that black lace out of the way and filling his son with his cock. Nothing else matters.

            And the moment Thranduil realizes that Legolas is willing, he immediately begins to tug the small pair of panties just enough out of the way so he has access to his son's tight hole. The smaller elf arches when a hand comes down, keening in pleasure as it hits his skin with a crack. His fingers trace the rim of his son's hole and the Elvenking is quite surprised to find that Legolas is already loose and slick and three fingers slide in easily.

            Legolas looks away guiltily and softly admits, “Gimli.”

            “I should have known,” Thranduil sighs out and pulls Legolas onto his lap again. He helps his son adjust and then sinks him down onto his cock, enjoying the way the hot, tight, velvety heat encases him. It's absolutely perfect and the only way it can get better is if Legolas winds up heavy with his child.

            The prince arches in pleasure, gasping softly as he bounces in his father's lap, the thick cock inside him filling him far past the brim. He _loves_ it, enjoys the way it stretches and consumes him and he wants more.

            They aren't seen for the entire day and when the next morning rolls around and Legolas winces as he sits at the breakfast table, Gimli looks entirely too smug. He also gives Thranduil the shovel talk, watching with glee when the Elf pales and actually shifts so that he's a few inches further away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll wanted it. It took a while and now ya'll are getting it.

            Thranduil is insatiable now that he can willingly have his son, and he can't keep himself from defiling that beautiful body again and again and again. He knows that they shouldn't be together, knows it well, but he doesn't care. Not when he can sink his cock into his child and fill him with his seed until it drips out over that pert ass and stains pale thighs white.

            He glances down at his child and smiles, lips turning up into a gentle curve. It's one that's reserved only for Legolas, and he gives it freely to the other. Especially when the smaller blond is down on his knees, his pretty lips tight around his cock. The Elvenking slides a hand into his child's hair and grips it tightly, trying to keep his hips from thrusting forward. They can't be caught. Not like this. His gaze shifts to one of the inane advisers trying to get him to change something. He can't remember what it is, but he knows full well that his answer is going to be a no. No matter how much he tries, council meetings will forevermore be shitty, but Legolas always makes them better. His toes curl in his boots when his son gives a particularly hard suck and Thranduil tightens the grip he has on his son's hair in warning.

            He's the only one that hears the faint whine, muffled as it is by his cock, and Thranduil finally loses his temper. “Out!” he bellows, pointing at the door, and watching with mild amusement as the old farts scramble to escape his wrath. Only when the last one is gone does he throw a powerful locking spell at the door and shoves his chair back from the table. Legolas grins up at him utterly unrepentant, pre-cum staining his lips and hair a mess. “Get up here, you little cocotte,” Thranduil purrs. “Over the table. I'm going to mount you like the slut you are.”

            Legolas shivers at the words and bends over the table, hips jerking as his leggings are yanked down to his knees. Thranduil presses his fingers against the quivering hole and then in, sinking them into the tight, wet heat. His son is still loose from an earlier fuck that morning and he pulls them out, cum staining the long digits. Legolas gleefully licks them clean as the Elvenking lines himself up, nudging his cock against the loose ring of muscles and watching as they flutter, before pressing in. The head slides in with a faint pop and he pushes forward, shoving his son against the table and covering him as he bottoms out. Legolas arches with a whine, cock-swollen lips parting as he pants for breath. “I can't believe you,” Thranduil hisses in a slender ear before taking it between his teeth and nipping the tip. His hips snap forward roughly and he practically shoves the smaller blond onto the table with each punishing thrust.

            The blond arches again, pupils dilating until there's only a thin ring of color around the black. “Ada,” he pleads breathlessly. “Please. Seyas....”

            Thranduil's hand slides down to his son's hip and he strokes the skin there, knowing full well that Legolas' cock is trapped against the table, a ribbon wrapped around it to keep him from orgasm. “You couldn't wait two and a half hours, could you? No, you had to sneak in here and suck me off. Are you that desperate for my cock? Are you that desperate to have me buried inside of you, filling your womb with my seed?”

            Legolas doesn't answer, but he does whine deep in the back of his throat, hips jerking with every thrust. His nails scrabble against the table as they try and fail to find a grip. Another whimper and he clenches tightly, body spasming as he reaches a dry orgasm. There's probably a sizable amount of pre-cum staining the table underneath his stomach, but neither of them care. His thrusts come harder as his orgasm bears down on him and he enjoys the way his son whines and whimpers, pleading for release.

            He pulls away and sinks back into his chair, beckoning his son to him with a quirk of his fingers. Legolas staggers over, straddles his lap, and sinks down with a keen, and Thranduil takes the chance to admire the white ribbon trussing the smaller blond's cock up. It's a stark contrast against the angry purplish-red of his flesh and he tugs teasingly on the ribbon, watching as his son's pupils dilate even further. “Come on, ion-nin,” Thranduil murmurs. “Make me cum and you shall have your orgasm.”

            Legolas begins bouncing on his cock and he jerks his hips up, rocking back and forth to meet each thrust as he seals their lips together hungrily. His son whines deep in the back of his throat and shoves his tongue into his father's mouth, saliva dribbling down their lips. It's messy and feral and everything that an Elvenking and Prince shouldn't be, but they both love it.

            Thranduil cums with a snarl, his hand finding the ribbon and undoing it as he swallows Legolas' scream of orgasm, ignoring the seed that stains his chest.

**oOo**

            Then Legolas starts getting sick in the mornings and Thranduil recognizes the symptoms long before he forces his son to the Healing Halls for a checkup. His heart is practically hammering in his chest and he calls upon his magic, twisting it gently to cross the smaller blond's stomach. There, hiding within the womb there, is a small reaction. A bright pulse of green magic. One that can only happen if one is pregnant. His eyes practically light up and Thranduil cuts off his magic, sealing their lips together in glee.

            _He's going to be a father again._

“Ada?” Legolas asks when Thranduil pulls away and busies himself in locking the door with a powerful spell before finding lubricant of some kind. Because something like this deserves a celebration, even if it means fucking his son on a bed in the Healing Halls.

            He'd honestly prefer their own bed, but he has to make do with what he has on hand.

            “Yes, my child?” he eventually says and makes a delighted noise when he _finally_ finds suitable lubricant. It's a heavy sort of lotion, not something he'd normally use, but it works in a pinch and he turns around, making no efforts at hiding his plans. Legolas' eyes widen as momentary shock flits over his features and then he leans back on the bed and spreads his legs wide. Thranduil settles in between them, tugging at his son's leggings and discarding them across the floor, raining kisses over whatever flesh he can reach. “Mine,” he whispers.

            “Ada? You're acting weird.”

            Thranduil can't hide his elation, slick fingers spreading his son wide. “I'm going to be an Ada again,” he breathes out and nuzzles at his sons throat as he removes his fingers and presses into Legolas' tight heat.

            Legolas' eyes widen, his hips arching off of the bed. He knew it would happen eventually, especially with the way they had been going at it, but so soon? A pale hand slides down and gently presses against his belly, cupping against where his stomach will eventually swell with child. He can feel his father pressing deep inside of him, spreading him wide.

            “I can't wait,” Thranduil murmurs as he rocks gently; “to see your belly swell with my child.”

            Legolas laughs breathlessly, hips jerking forward to meet every thrust. “Neither can I, Ada.”

**oOo**

            Apparently, even Thranduil can shove his own foot into his mouth. “Legolas, please. Let me in already!”

            “Absolutely not! You can sleep on the damn floor!”

            The Elvenking is silent for a moment. “I have chocolate?” he says and holds the packages up even though his son can't see them.

            Legolas unlocks the door and pulls it open just wide enough so he can swipe them. “The chocolate can come in, but you can't. And I'm not fat!” he snaps and slams the door shut. Thranduil can hear the lock clicking back into place and scowls.

            “Come on! If you'd just let me explain.”

            “No! I don't care! I'm fat and unwanted!” The sound of footsteps followed by a creak tells the blond that his son has retreated to their bed.

            Thranduil decides that he's had enough, puts his full weight on the door, and releases a powerful unlocking spell. There's a crack as the lock shatters from the force of his magic and he shoves the door open and strides through, a scowl on his lips. Legolas watches with wide eyes, gaze focused on the way the door bounces off of the wall and slams closed. Thranduil huffs and freezes the door shut before turning his gaze on his son. He storms over to the bed and pulls the smaller blond onto his lap, nuzzling softly at pale hair. “If you would have let me finish my sentence, we wouldn't have had this problem.”

            “Fine,” Legolas mutters petulantly.

            “You're swelling with my child,” Thranduil murmurs softly and begins kissing down Legolas' neck; “how could I not think it beautiful?” He finishes by nipping at the tip of a slender ear, biting gently at the tip.

            “Ada,” Legolas whines, arching back against him. He turns around in Thranduil's lap and presses their lips together gently. “Apology accepted,” he murmurs and snuggles in close. “I love you.”

            “I love you, too.”

**oOo**

            By the time five months roll around, Legolas is going crazy. “Ada,” he begins dangerously. Thranduil pauses mid-motion, his hands half an inch away from the pitcher of juice.

            “Yes?” he asks nervously.

            “You had better not be pouring _my_ juice for _me_. I am five months heavy, not invalid.”

            “Err,” the Elvenking says eloquently. His hand slid past the pitcher of juice and grabbed the wine instead, and he poured himself a large glass. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

            Legolas' eyes narrow and he's about to leap to his feet and storm out of the room when something distracts him. “OH!” His eyes widen and his hands fly to his swollen belly.

            Thranduil's on his feet instantly. “Are you all right?” he barks and darts around the table. “Do you need a healer?” He drops to his knees, panicking wildly, and yanks his son's tunic out of the way. Legolas rolls his eyes, far calmer than he honestly should be, and grabs his father's hands, gently placing them on his bare belly. Thranduil blinks, glances up at his son, and pauses, feeling the faintest of jabs. Then it happens again and understanding dawns. “Oh,” he says weakly and begins to laugh. A second jab echoes the first one and the Elvenking pauses, a thought occurring to him. Magic glows and pulses and then two, twin heartbeats echo in the room, just slightly out of sync.

            “Ada?” Legolas asks. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

            “Twins,” Thranduil breathes out like it's a prayer. “I am _so_ going to rub this in Elrond's face.”  He presses his lips to pale flesh, gently kissing the skin around his son's navel. Legolas begins laughing and the sound echoes in the room like bells.

**oOo**

            “I _hate_ you,” Legolas spits, legs spread wide across the bed. Pale liquid coats the inside of his thighs and he whines when another contraction ripples through his belly. Thranduil hovers nervously nearby, too anxious to really be of any help.

            “Relax,” the healer murmurs. “Your vaginal channel is eight centimeters dilated. Two more and then you'll be able to push.”

            Legolas glares at his father, eyes practically shooting daggers. “You did _not_ tell me I would develop a second channel,” he grinds out. “Consider yourself couched!”

            A frown crosses Thranduil's face and he says; “That's not fair.”

            “I don't care. You're still couc—Ah!” He cuts off with a scream and grabs for his father's hand, squeezing it hard enough to grind the bones together.

            Thranduil whimpers in pain, blanches to a misty shade of white, and tries to extract his hand from his son's grasp before it gets broken. He's not successful and he resigns himself to healing a broken hand once he manages to remove it from the vice-like grip.

            “Ten centimeters, your highness.”

            “That's fabulous,” Legolas snaps back.

            The healer rolls her eyes, long since used to the prickliness of elves giving birth, and says; “On your next contraction, I want you to push. Understand?”

            Legolas growls at her, drops his head onto the pillow, and closes his eyes, tightening the grip he has on his father's hand. Thranduil makes a wheezing noise. “Sayas, Legolas. Let go. Or at least loosen your grip.”

            “If I have to suffer, so do you,” the Prince snarls and tenses as his next contraction rolls over him. He can vaguely hear the healer murmur words of encouragement through the haze of pain, and concentrates on the warmth of his father's hand.

            There's the sound of skin against skin and then the wail of a baby echoes throughout the room. Legolas jerks, startled for a second, and the grip he has on Thranduil's hand slips. His father takes the moment and pulls away, running healing magic through his hand as he reaches for his newborn child. The healer hands the baby over to him and he vanishes into the next room.

            “One more to go,” she murmurs to Legolas.

            “Ada,” he whines, trying desperately to find his hand.

            “In the next room washing up your son. He'll be back in a moment. Push.” The Prince gasps as the next contraction ripples through his belly and braces himself, bearing down as hard as he can. There's movement beside him and then a hand slips into his, and he clutches at it, whimpering in the back of his throat.

            “There,” the healer says just as Legolas feels the second child slide out of him. Thranduil carefully extracts his hand from his son's grip and begins to run healing magic through pale flesh. Legolas' eyes clear as the pain fades and his son's breathing evens out.

            “Ada,” he murmurs softly. Thranduil sits on the edge of the healing bed and gently presses their eldest babe into his son's arms.

            “This one's a girl,” he says softly.

            “I have a boy,” the healer says as she steps back into the room. “Congratulations, it's fraternal twins.” Legolas laughs softly and nuzzles back into the pillow, gently running his fingers down his daughter's cheek. Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see his father reaching out to take their son from the healer. She smiles. “Shall I inform everyone?”

            Thranduil blinks and then nods. “That would be nice.” His smile then becomes wicked. “I can't wait to rub this into Elrond's face. Twins!”

            “Ada,” Legolas warns, but his tone is amused; “Elrond has a set of twins already. And a daughter. Remember?”

            “Yes, but he's sleeping with that cranky adviser of his.”

            Legolas pauses, mind crashing at the thought of Elrond and _Erestor_ in the same bed together. “Really?” he asks weakly.

            “They think they're so sneaky,” Thranduil says with a roll of his eyes. He drops his voice and hisses; _“They're really not,”_ and then looks away like he hadn't just said anything at all.

            “Ada....” Legolas breaks off and cracks into a series of snickers, wheezing quietly as he tries to get his breath. Thranduil smirks, lips pulling back to show off his teeth.

            He glances down at the baby boy in his arms. “What should we name them?”

            “Ah,” Legolas says elegantly as his gaze shifts to their daughter. “I don't know....” He pauses and blinks down at her. “How about Cainwen?”

            “Blessed fair one?” Thranduil muses. “I like it. If we're going that way, what about Urien for the boy?”

            “Which meaning; of privileged birth or heavenly?”

            “Heavenly.”

            “Mmmm. I think I like Meirion better.”

            Thranduil rolls his eyes and sighs. “Whatever you want, love. It's your choice.”

            Legolas laughs. “Cainwen and Meirion it is. Shall we send a message to Elrond?”

            A sharp grin crosses the Elvenking's face. “Oh, yes, definitely.”

**oOo**

_To Lord Elrond of Imaldris:_

_It is my great pleasure to announce the birth of Cainwen and Meirion. ~~Suck it, Elrond. I have a set of twins now, too.~~ They were born on the eve of the Spring Festival, delighting the people of Mirkwood with their presence. The eldest, Cainwen, weighs in just over seven pounds, six ounces less than her younger brother, Meirion._

_Yours,  
            Elvenking Thranduil of Mirkwood_

Legolas reads the letter over his father's shoulder and sighs. “You're really going to send that?”

            “Yes.”

            “I hope you realize that I'm not going to save you if Elrond or Erestor come here to thoroughly kick your ass. In fact, I'd probably encourage them.”

            “Traitor,” Thrandiul murmurs as he leans over to kiss Legolas. He seals the letter and gives it to the hawk on the windowsill before scooping up his son and tossing him onto the bed.

            The lights go out.


	3. The Annoyances of Muses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond receives Thranduil's letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm sick in bed with something that's halfway between a cold and the flu, and the muse for this story reared its ugly head. I'd apologize, but that would involve me actually being sorry. (Spoiler: I'm not.)

     Elrond is halfway through reading a missive about trading with a nearby town of mortals when Thranduil's personal messenger hawk arrives. It lands gracefully on the sill of the open window and cries loudly, attracting the attention of Erestor, who is in the middle of reshelving all the books in the peredhel's office. "I'll get that," Erestor says as he sets down the stack of books in his arms and heads across the room. Quietly setting his pen down, Elrond watches as his adviser takes the letter and opens it, dark eyes scanning the contents. "Well, I never!" He huffs in annoyance. "The nerve of that elf!"

     "What has Thranduil done this time?" Elrond asks, and he's not sure if he really wants to know. The last time Erestor had used those words was after the whole incident with Sauron, his One Ring, and Melkor. The incident where the whole damn war was Sauron - or Marion, as he goes by nowadays - trying to get his mate back and Manwë being a jealous, two-year-old brat about the entire situation. Really, it's one of the stupidest things Elrond's ever had to put up with, and that is definitely saying something.

     "Why don't you read for yourself?" Erestor says, flatly, as he tosses the letter down onto his desk. Cautiously, and suddenly feeling like he's going to regret this, Elrond picks it up, reads through it once, reads it again, and then sighs, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose with one hand. "Please tell me we still have that bottle of wine you somehow managed to bring from Gondolin."

     Erestor frowns thoughtful, and then nods. "I believe Glorfindel hasn't gotten his grabby fingers on it yet, so yes, I think we do. Are we going to send that to Mirkwood as a congratulations?"

     "More like a sympathy gift. If those twins are anything like my sons, then Thranduil is going to need it." Elrond pauses for a moment when Erestor winces, head tilting to the side as he opens himself up to the world around him. Mirkwood is a bright spot in the shadowy woods surrounding it and his mind slips through the stones, easily finding what he is looking for. "Looks like he finally slept with Legolas."

     "It's about time," Erestor admits, shaking his head. "I'm amazed that the young prince managed to remain oblivious for so long. Visiting Mirkwood was just so awkward." He leans over and brushes his lips against Elrond's forehead. "I'm going to find that bottle of wine. And possibly beat Glorfindel over the head if he's in the cellars. Again." Pulling the heavy, oak door open, Erestor heads down the hall; Elrond watches his lover until he can no longer see the slim form. The oak door slowly closes with a faint thud.

**oOo**

     Never before has Elrond desired to bang his head against the nearest wall. He pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to stave off the building migraine, ignoring the way Glorfindel is grumbling several rather unflattering things at Erestor's back. Knowing full well that his lover has ears like a hawk, the peredhel leans back in his chair and watches with unsympathetic eyes as the advisor suddenly twists around and hurls a book at his Captain's head. It connects soundly, the thud buried underneath Glorfindel's shriek of pain. "You are an idiot," Elrond informs the blond, picking up the book from where it has landed on his desk. He tosses it back to Erestor, mildly amused at the squawk of indignation, and somehow manages to refrain from rolling his eyes.

     There's a thunk as Erestor sets the bottle of wine on the table and the two dark-haired elves can see the way the blond straightens in his seat. "No," Erestor says flatly, cutting the other off just as he opens his mouth, "absolutely not."

     "This is not for you," Elrond adds. "Thranduil has finally gotten around to having more children. This is both a congratulations gift and a sympathy gift."

     Glorfindel raises a single brow. "Why would it need to be a sympathy gift?"

     Erestor snickers. "Thranduil finally got around to admitting that he has a thing for his son and Legolas birthed him a pair of twins. Fraternal, but still twins. If they're anything like Elladan and Elrohir, then he's going to need it." Glorfindel, remembering full well the neon pink hair Elladan and Elrohir had 'gifted' him with two months ago, winces and barely manages to avoid going for the flask of wine he now keeps on his person at all times. It's a horrible habit, he knows that well, but always being mildly tipsy makes dealing with the twins a lot easier. Glorfindel just hopes Elrond won't kill him for it when the peredhel finds out. He will, too. Elrond knows everything that goes on in his valley.

     "Glorfindel," Elrond begins, mildly disapproving, "please don't drink in my office. I don't care what you do outside of this room, but you will be sober when talking to me." He leans back a little, watching with vague amusement as his Captain of the Guards winces guiltily. Erestor covers his mouth with his hand, but the peredhel is at the perfect angle to tell that his advisor is more than a little amused. "I'll send off the missive and wine immediately. Erestor, if you would please fetch me a hawk? Glorfindel, you're excused."

     "The blond elf sniffs daintily as he gets to his feet and turns to stride out of the room, somehow still being graceful despite the fact that he's mildly tipsy. "Of course, my Lord," Glorfindel says. "If you need me, I will be on the training grounds." He sweeps out, closing the door silently behind him.

     Erestor sighs, rubs at his eyes, and quietly asks, "Would you be terribly angry if I arranged an accident?"

     "Yes. I need him."

     "Damn. I'll go fetch that messenger hawk, then." Erestor flips his tightly braided hair over a shoulder and strides out of the room, grumbling under his breath the entire way. Elrond watches him go, yet again wondering if he's going to regret this.

     Knowing the elves around him, he probably will.


End file.
